She paints a pretty picture, but the story has a twist. Her paint brush is a razor, and her canvas her wrist. She paints a pretty picture, In a color that is blood red, While using a her sharp paint brush, She ends up finally dead. Her pretty picture is fading, quite slowly on her arm. The blood is not racing through her, She can no longer do harm. She painted her pretty picture, but her picture has a twist, Her mind was her razor, and her heart was just her wrist. By Andrea Infinity.